PSYCHOLOGICAL.
About half a league to the west of Santa Fe three men and a woman were seated behind a dense clump of trees, which sheltered while rendering them unseen, over a bois-de-vache fire, supping with good appetite, and chatting together. The three men were Red Cedar's sons; the female was Ellen. The maiden was pale and sad: her dreamy eye wandered around with a distraught expression. She listened hardly to what her brothers said, and would certainly have been greatly embarrassed to describe the conversation, for her mind was elsewhere.
"Hum!" Sutter said, "what the deuce can keep the old one so long? He told us he should be back by four o'clock at the latest; but the sun is just disappearing on the horizon, and he has not come yet."
"Pshaw!" Nathan said with a shrug of the shoulders. "Are you afraid that something has happened to him? The old chap has beak and nails to defend himself; and since his last turn up with Don Miguel, the fellow who is to be shot tomorrow at Santa Fe, he has kept on his guard."
"I care very little," Sutter replied brusquely, "whether father is here or not; but I believe we should do well not to wait longer, but return to the camp, where our presence is doubtless necessary."
"Nonsense! Our comrades can do without us," Shaw observed. "We are all right here, so suppose we stop the night. Tomorrow it will be day. Well, if father has not returned by sunrise, we will go back to camp. Harry and Dick can keep good order till our return."
"In truth, Shaw is right," Nathan said. "Father is at times so strange, that he might be angry with us for not having waited for him; for he never does anything lightly. If he told us to stay here, he probably had his reasons."
"Let us stay, then," Sutter remarked carelessly. "I ask for nothing better. We shall only have to keep the fire up, and so one of us will watch while the others sleep."
"Agreed on," Nathan replied. "In that way, if the old man comes during our sleep, he will see that we waited for him."
The three brothers rose. Sutter and Nathan collected a pile of dry wood to maintain the fire, while Shaw intertwined a few branches to make his sister a sufficient shelter for the night. The two elder brothers thrust their feet toward the fire, wrapped themselves in their blankets, and went to sleep, after advising Shaw to keep a bright lookout, not only against wild beasts, but to announce the old squatter's approach. Shaw, after stirring up the fire, threw himself at the foot of a larch tree, and letting his head sink on his chest, plunged into deep and painful meditation.
This poor boy, hardly twenty years of age, was a strange composite of good and evil qualities. Reared in the desert, he had grown up like one of its native trees, thrusting out here and there branches full of powerful sap. Nothing had ever thwarted his instincts, no matter what their nature might be. Possessing no cognizance of justice and injustice, he had never been able to appreciate the squatter's conduct, or see the injury he did society by the life he led. Habituated to regard as belonging to himself all that he wished for, allowing himself to be guided by his impressions and caprices, never having felt any other fetter than his father's despotic will, this young man had at once a nature expansive and reserved, generous and avaricious, gentle and cruel: in a word, he possessed all the qualities of his vices; but he was, before all, a man of sensations. Endowed with a vast intellect, extreme audacity, and lively comprehensions, he would have been indubitably a remarkable man, had he been born in a different position.
His sister Ellen was the only member of his family for whom he experienced sympathy; and yet it was only with extreme reserve that he intrusted his boyish secrets to her—secrets which, during the last few days, had acquired an importance he did not himself suspect, but which his sister, with the innate intelligence of woman, had already divined.
Shaw, as we have said, was thinking. The young savage's indomitable nature revolted against an unknown force which had suddenly sprung up in his heart—mastered and subdued him in spite of all his efforts. He was in love! He loved, ignorant even of the meaning of the word love, which comprises in this nether world all earthly joy and suffering. Vainly he sought to explain his feelings; but no light flashed across his mind, or illumined the darkness of his heart. He loved without desire and without hope, involuntarily obeying that divine law which compels even the roughest man to seek a mate. He was dreaming of Doña Clara. He loved her, as he was capable of loving, with that passionate impetuosity, that violence of feeling, to which his uncultivated mind adapted him. The sight of the maiden caused him a strange trouble, which he did not attempt to account for. He did not try to analyse his feelings, for that would have been impossible; and yet at times he was a prey to cold and terrible fury, when thinking that the haughty maiden, who was even unconscious of his existence, would probably only spurn and despise him if she knew it. He was yielding to these crushing thoughts, when he suddenly felt a hand laid on his shoulder. On turning, Ellen stood before him, upright and motionless, like the white apparitions of the German legends. He raised his head, and bent an inquiring glance on his sister.
"You are not asleep, Ellen?"
"No," she answered in a voice soft as a bird's song. "Brother, my heart is sad."
"What is the matter, Ellen? Why not enjoy a few hours of that repose so necessary for you?"
"My heart is sad, I tell you, brother," she went on. "In vain do I seek sleep—it flies far from me."
"Sister, tell me the cause of your sufferings, and perhaps I can appease the grief that devours you."
"Can you not guess it?"
"I do not understand you."
She looked at him so sternly that he could not let his eyes fall.
"On the contrary, you understand me too well, Shaw," she said with a sigh. "Your heart rejoices at this moment at the misfortune of the woman you should defend."
The young man blushed.
"What can I do?" he murmured faintly.
"Everything, if you have the firm will," she exclaimed energetically.
"No," Shaw went on, shaking his head with discouragement; "the person of whom you speak is the old man's prisoner. I cannot contend against my father."
Ellen smiled contemptuously.
"You seek in vain to hide your thoughts from me," she said harshly. "I read your heart as an open book: your sorrow is feigned, and you really rejoice at the thought that in future you will constantly be by Doña Clara's side."
"I!" he exclaimed with an angry start.
"Yes, you only see in her captivity a means to approach her. Your selfish heart is secretly gladdened by that hope."
"You are harsh to me, sister. Heaven is my witness that, were it possible, I would at once restore her the liberty torn from her."
"You can if you like."
"No, it is impossible. My father watches too closely over his prisoner."
"He will not distrust you, but allow you to approach her freely."
"What you ask of me is impossible."
"Because you will not, Shaw. Remember that women only love men in proportion to the sacrifices they make for them: they despise cowards."
"But how to save her?"
"That is your affair, Shaw."
"At least give me some advice which will help me to escape from the difficult position in which I find myself."
"In such serious circumstances your heart must guide you, and you must only ask counsel of it."
"But the old one?" Shaw said hesitatingly.
"Our father will not know your movements. I take on myself to prevent him noticing them."
"Good!" the young man remarked, half convinced; "but I do not know where the maiden is hidden."
"I will tell you, if you swear to do all in your power to save her."
There was a moment of silence.
"I swear to obey you, Ellen. If I do not succeed in carrying the girl off, I will at any rate employ all my intellect to obtain that result. Speak, then, without fear."
"Doña Clara is confined at the Rancho del Coyote: she was intrusted to Andrés Garote."
"Ah, ah!" the young man said, as if speaking to himself, "I did not fancy her so near us."
"You will save her?"
"At all events I will try to free her from the hands of the man who guards her."
"Good!" the maiden remarked; "I now recognise you. Lose no time: my father's absence alarms me. Perhaps at this moment he is preparing a safer hiding place for his prisoner."
"Your idea is excellent, sister. Who knows whether it is not too late now to tear from the old man the prey he covets?"
"When do you intend to start?"
"At once: I have not a moment to lose. If the old man returned I should be compelled to remain here. But who will keep watch while my brothers sleep?"
"I will," the maiden answered resolutely.
"Whence arises the interest you feel in this woman, sister, as you do not know her?" the young man asked in surprise.
"She is a woman, and unhappy. Are not those reasons sufficient?"
"Perhaps so," Shaw remarked doubtfully.
"Child!" Ellen muttered, "Can you not read in your own heart, the motive of my conduct toward this stranger?"
The young savage started at this remark.
"It is true!" He exclaimed passionately. "Pardon me, sister! I am mad; but I love you, and you know me better than I do myself."
And rising hurriedly, he kissed his sister, threw his rifle over his shoulder, and ran off in the direction of Santa Fe.
When he had disappeared in the gloom, and the sound of his footsteps had died out in the distance, the girl fell on the ground, muttering in a low, sad voice:
"Will he succeed?"